


Twisted Little Souls

by noobieninja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Incest, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers, Sibling Incest, Vague blowjobs, just a little bit though, toppy bottom!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobieninja/pseuds/noobieninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester Trio were well known throughout the country as the most dangerous family of the century. The poor old man, the dirty young ringleader, the brainwashed little brother. But things don't really fit into neat little labels like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted Little Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Written out of pure inspiration and an interest in serial killers - also for someone on Tumblr who I really like. uwu A bit of a different style this time, but only slightly. And a shitty ending, who doesn't love those? Beware, this actually does get kind of gory. Also really sloppy half-smut.

The Winchester Trio were well known throughout the country as the most dangerous family of the century. One wouldn't suspect them at first - three tall, attractive men, one with a rough beard and a tired look in his eyes, one with a firey grin and a cock of the gods as told by many women, and one with big, gooey brown eyes and a shy air about him. Two brothers and a father.  
  
People who knew John Winchester, the father, say that once upon a time, he was a normal, happy guy. He liked cars and beer and football, loved his wife, loved his two little sons. After the fire that killed his wife, however, they say, he changed. He became a marionette on a string, fueled by beer and restless nights. His sons had to take care of him, and through that, he became part of their disturbing schemes. They say that he only was only going through the motions, not realizing the immorality of his actions through the haze of depression and hopelessness.  
  
People who met Dean Winchester say that he was the one behind it all. He had a big personality, flirty and easy on the eyes. He winked at cameras if they were ever in front of one, checked his hair in the reflection, even joked around in front of the damn thing. He was the face of the dangerous family, shown in the news the most with his Blue Steel mug shot and bright green eyes shining at the audience. Women who had slept with him said that he was glorious between the sheets, but emotionally distant, would always leave immediately. People who knew him back from school said that he'd always seemed so normal, until around the time he was sixteen, when something inside him changed. No one ever knew what it was, though. No one got to know him that well.  
  
People who met Sam Winchester pitied him. He was the youngest of the family, a smart and funny and handsome young man who could easily have had a bright, happy future. He was never very popular in school, always too busy with getting good grades to make new friends. He had his brother, though, who watched over him like a hawk and always picked him up after school, was known for disliking anyone who got too close to Sammy. His brother's change seemed to affect him, because as Dean became more brazen and apathetic, Sam seemed to pull himself away from everything around him but his family. He became distant, and the one time someone tried to talk to him, make friends, see what was going on in his head, he mumbled something about not wanting to upset his brother, running away. People pitied him, because he was caught up in the middle of every horrible thing his brother forced him to do, brainwashed by the person he was always closest to.  
  
The rumors always made Sam laugh.  
  
People only saw what they wanted to see - poor old man, dirty young ringleader, brainwashed little brother. It all fit in too easily, and sometimes he wondered what it was like to live so ignorantly.  
  
Some of it was true, of course, as all rumors were based on a tiny bit of truth.  
  
John really was a broken man, a drunken old bastard who stopped caring eighteen and a half years ago. Dean really was a flirty, brazen fucker with a penchant for not listening to authorities. And Sam really was a smart kid who knew how to pout for the police and say that his brother was his favorite person, the one he loved most in this world, and that was what made them so suspicious about Dean.  
  
But they were so _dumb_ it shocked Sam. Was it even legal to be that stupid?  
  
Of course it was. It's only intelligence that's outlawed these days.  
  
\---  
  
Sam can remember the exact moment he made Dean his - the tipping point, as it were.  
  
Not to say that they hadn't always belonged to each other. Since Sam had been born, Dean had loved him dearly, promised to always keep him safe. Sam grew up with Dean's overprotective attitude towards him and John's stricter moments. He rebelled against John, but he melted into Dean's affections like they brought him ecstasy unattainable by any other means. And Dean had always cared too much for Sam, would do everything he could and more to make the kid happy. He just wanted his little brother safe and happy, was that too much to ask?  
  
There was a tipping point, though, when suddenly Dean was under Sam's complete power, seduced by the soft, trusting, tender tones of his voice and the way he could make false tears spring up to his eyes so easily. In the dark of the night, when Sam admitted too much, Dean would shush him and kiss him on the forehead, telling him it would all be better soon, though he never knew what was wrong and how he could fix it, but he desperately wanted to.  
  
The tipping point happened around when Sam was twelve and Dean was sixteen. Dean had had a rough day at school - a teacher telling him to shape up, a girl discovering his lack of sexual energy for the female gender as much as he tried to make it seem like he had a lot of it - and Sam was trying to make him feel better.  
  
"I can try to make some pie for you, Dean."  
  
"No, Sammy, I'm okay, really."  
  
Sam furrowed his eyebrows, and shifted closer. He pressed the back of his hand to Dean's forehead, making the older laugh a bit.  
  
"I'm not sick, Sammy."  
  
"Dean, you just refused _pie_ ," he retorted, but put his hand down.  
  
"I know," Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. "It's surely some emotional issue, not the fact that I stole three extra slices during lunch today," he laughed again, curling an arm around Sam and pulling him close. "Thanks for caring, though."  
  
"I'll always care for you, Dean, I love you," Sam mumbled, wrapping his arms around Dean's chest, pulling himself closer.  
  
"I love you, too, kiddo," Dean said quietly, holding Sam close for a moment.  
  
Moments like this weren't strange. They shared a bed too often for it to be strange at this point. They enjoyed each other's company, emotional and physical, they liked being in contact with each other. It was a comfort mechanism.  
  
"Dean," Sam's voice was muffled against his brother's shoulder, but Dean still heard.  
  
"Yeah, Sam?"  
  
"It would be bad if I loved you as more than a brother, wouldn't it?"  
  
Dean let out a sigh, and paused for a moment. But when he spoke, he didn't sound panicked or disgusted. Just defeated. "Yeah, Sammy, it would."  
  
Sam knew immediately from Dean's lack of a freak out that he was in the clear. Dean wouldn't let his guard down so easily if he wasn't going to be compliant - and even if he _had_ freaked out, Sam would have found a way to calm him down and get what he wanted anyway. But he didn't want Dean to know his thoughts just yet. "I'm sorry," he muttered, hugging Dean closer, tighter, as if he didn't want to let go ever, but he knew that he would be pulled away soon.  
  
Dean didn't push him away, just pressed his lips to Sam's slender little shoulder. "Don't be sorry, baby boy," he whispered, one of his hands running up and down Sam's back soothingly. "It's okay."  
  
"Dean," Sam pulled away slightly, putting their faces too close for comfort, pressing his gaze hard into Dean's. His brother's beautiful green eyes, which could change so easily from cold and hard to warm and tender, Sam had seen the transformation himself, were locked onto his, asking a thousand silent questions.  
  
Sam nodded, and Dean shook his head.  
  
"We can't, Sammy," he said, his voice rough. He wanted this just as badly as Sam did, but he knew the consequences, he cared about the damage that would be done to poor little Sammy.  
  
"Why not? Dean, I love you, please," he begged quietly, pulling himself into Dean's lap, pressing their chests together. It was too intimate a move, too much too fast, but Dean could easily have pushed Sam away if he wanted him gone.  
  
Dean was quiet for a long time, just looking down at his little brother with the closest thing to a 'no' Sam had ever seen in his eyes before. But eventually he nodded. "I love you, too, Sammy."  
  
\---  
  
Dean decided that he wasn't going for his senior year in high school. Sam was okay with that, because he wanted to go to college and get a big, important job, and he and Dean could live together and be happy and Dean could work at an autoshop or something.  
  
Well, he told himself he wanted that.  
  
But in reality, his favorite daydreams were ones of him and Dean on the run, blood on their hands, fingers entwined, lips pressed against one another's. His favorite daydreams included Dean sitting in the corner of a dark room while Sam carved open an innocent person on a steel slab, listening to their voice scream and their insides gush and squish; Dean would watch, of course, and once Sam was done toying with the victim, Dean would kill them with a quick bullet to the head. And then they'd fall into bed together, Sam riding Dean like a rodeo bull.  
  
It sounded glorious to Sam, but he knew those fantasies were dark and twisted and evil and bad and wrong and _noSamnobackinthecageyou'renotallowedoutyou'reneverleavingthehouseagain_.  
  
So he kept his evil thoughts to himself for a long year.  
  
But he was starting to itch, like he was shedding his skin but the shell wouldn't _break_ and he felt trapped and hot and uncomfortable and he wanted _out_. Dean could tell he wasn't feeling right, and every night wrapped his arms around him and kissed him and asked what was wrong. Sam never answered his questions with anything more than a noncomittal grunt, but one night he finally broke his silence.  
  
"Dean."  
  
"Yeah, Sammy?"  
  
"Have you ever thought about what it would be like to kill someone?"  
  
Dean sat up then, body tense and eyes wide open. Sam let himself stay laying down, loosely gripping Dean's muscular arms, urging him to stay in bed despite his panic. "Sammy..."  
  
"Don't hate me," Sam interrupted. looking away and closing his eyes as if to sleep away the taut, awkward moment.  
  
Dean was quiet for a while, but eventually eased back into bed, curling his arms around Sam and bringing him in close. "Talk to me," he said, his voice gruff, but he obviously wasn't going to be leaving any time soon.  
  
Sam cracked an eye open. "You sure you want to listen?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean rasped. "I wanna listen, Sammy. Tell me about all this going through your head."  
  
Sam smiled a bit, leaning forward to kiss Dean before telling his tales of wonderfully gorey images running through his head, how he imagined blood to feel like dripping down off his fingers and how he liked the way blood stained clothes. He spun bloody words into pretty shiny gold to wrap up the psychotic present for Dean, and the older stayed passive and quiet as he listened to Sam tell him about the first person he'd wanted to kill - one of his old math teachers, or something, he couldn't remember, just remembered the way he wanted to cut her open and strangle her with her own slippy-slidey intestines.  
  
When Sam was done, he looked to Dean for a reaction.  
  
Dean just nodded, and kissed Sam gently.  
  
"I'll help you through this," he whispered against the soft, chapped lips of his little brother. "I promise, in whatever way I can help, I will."  
  
\---  
  
Dean didn't really know who he was, but he loved watched Sam tear him apart, bit by bit, breaking off piece by piece.  
  
Sam had been thrilled when he found out the house they were renting had a sound proof bomb shelter. He'd been more thrilled when Dean said that, yes, he could go out and find a victim. He'd waited three long, long, unbearable years for this moment, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was exciting and terrifying all in the same sensation.  
  
The dirty talk and the shared fantasies and the whispered promises weren't enough anymore, Sam needed the real fucking deal and Dean had said _yes_ , and that was something glorious and beautiful in Sam's eyes.  
  
He pinpointed the target easily. It was some poor fucker in his biology class who'd flirted with him just one too many times. Sam told Dean about every word this kid said out of line, every billowing black blob that dared be called a _word_ that spewed out of his mouth, and he wasn't too fond of him either.  
  
Dean blacked out the memory of capturing him. He didn't want to remember the look of sheer terror on his face, but when he told Sam he didn't remember, he launched off on this tangent of how deliciously afraid the guy was, how he looked like he was about to piss himself. Dean was glad Sam was so happy.  
  
But he remembered being in the bomb shelter, making sure the door was locked tight as he listened to Sam prepping the guy on the table behind him. When he turned around, he was surprised by how _clinical_ Sam was being about it.  
  
Clean utensils - where did he get a fucking _scalpal_ , for christ's sake - and leather straps to cover up the bits he didn't want to see, keeping the kid bound to the table. Hell, even gloves and a mask.  
  
Sam flicked his eyes up to Dean, and even behind the mask, Dean could tell he was smiling. "Thanks."  
  
"No problem, Sammy."  
  
When the kid - Nico or something - woke up, Sam started to cut in.  
  
Sam learned a lot that first time. Like how loud a nearly full-grown man can scream when he's being cut open, and how much pressure it took to effectively slice through all the skin and fat that covered up the good stuff. Like how watching a person suffer and cry and beg and bleed made him feel oddly serene, like he'd finally found a place for his puzzle piece, and was calmly fulfilling his place in his life, cutting open a kid who deserved it.  
  
He liked killing, he decided as he cut into Nico's liver, listening to his howls of agony. He liked it a lot.  
  
Vaguely, he wondered if Dean would let him do it again.  
  
After a few hours of toying around with Nico, Sam finally put his tools down, peeling the gloves off and throwing them into the trash can nearby. Nico was barely hanging onto his life, eyes fluttering open and closed, his heartbeat slow and shallow, as Sam could see through the gaping hole in his chest, where he'd broken a few ribs and torn them out.  
  
"Dean, I don't want to kill him."  
  
Dean was, at first, confused. Sam had all but destroyed this guy, and _now_ he was regretting it?  
  
But there was no regret in Sam's eyes, only expectation.  
  
Oh.  
  
Dean had to do the dirty work.  
  
He stood up and walked over, grabbing the bloody scalpal. He unceremoniously slit the kid's throat, and he hated the way he gagged and choked.  
  
Next time he'd have to bring his gun.  
  
\---  
  
When they had to run from the police, they didn't explain the big _why_ to John. Just said that they'd fucked some shit up and needed to hide.  
  
John just gave them a long, blank stare, too drunk to bring himself out of the depressed haze circling around his mind. As per usual.  
  
Dean cursed and told Sam to help John out to the car, and he ran off to go pack their things. He drove them all the way to New Orleans, where they stayed for a while.  
  
Until their faces ended up on TV. The three of them, with John's tired, saggy expression, Dean's charming grin, and Sam's wide, bright eyes.  
  
They had to lay low after that, and left New Orleans for Anaheim in the middle of a hot July night.  
  
\---  
  
These days, their footsteps weren't so easily traced. They knew how to hide, how to run, how to pretend to be a functional couple of brothers with a broken dad that they toted about - which got plenty of pity favors.  
  
They were pretty sure John knew all about what they did in the bedroom, because they weren't exactly quiet about it, but he never said anything. He was always too drunk, too sad, too broken. He wasn't a strong man, never had been.  
  
Killing was a bit harder these days. Sam always had to do his dirty work first - it helped calm him, it held him together like loose, runny glue. They'd have to find a soundproof room to do it in, which usually meant breaking into someone's house and taking their basement.  
  
Sam was nineteen now. Fully legal, but still growing and maturing bit by bit. Dean loved him, loved him so dearly and so closely, couldn't stop loving him. Every glance over to him was something beautiful and it made his heart clench. When they got to their motel for the night, they always got John a separate room, and they tried to keep quiet in their own.  
  
Dean could tell that Sam was starting to get the itch again - the urge, the want, the need to torture and maim someone so bad they barely cling to life by a thread. At night Sam would be restless and wouldn't let Dean sleep until he passed out himself. During the day, he would be overly attentive to everything and everyone around them, sometimes focusing on someone for a short while, only to be disappointed by something Dean couldn't see.  
  
Of course Dean couldn't see it, though. He didn't have the same eye that Sam did. He'd never wanted to kill in the first place, he just followed Sam blindly like a lost puppy. Sam thought it was adorable.  
  
When he started to feel the need again, he'd try to look for a victim. He'd watch everyone, trying to find someone who pissed him off enough at first glance. Most often, it was some suburban househusband or kid with a smartass attitude. It all hit too close to home for Sam, and he wanted to tear them apart, hurt them, make them pay for their bratty little lives. Sometimes, he'd find someone that interested him - they had the coifed hair and the bright smile and the latest technology. But then they'd see him looking - one time, the kid actually ended up _hitting on him_ and he thought Dean was going to shoot him right there without all the fun - or they'd do something, a small quirk in their personality that made Sam back off. Sometimes he didn't even know why, he just lost interest in them.  
  
Sometime in May, Sam found the next victim in some Buttfuck, Nowhere town in Oklahoma. It was a man this time, with tattoos swirling around his arms and chest and neck, but that wasn't what bothered Sam - he actually was quite fond of tattoos, always insisted that Dean should get one. What bothered him was the fact that he saw this guy at the bar - he'd come with Dean, intending to get a little tipsy then go back to the motel room for a bit of fun - and he saw this guy picking fights, left and right, obviously hammered.  
  
"That guy," he muttered to Dean, pointing at the guy with a tipped glass of whiskey. "He's the one."  
  
Dean cast they guy a look out of the corner of his eye. He nodded, sipping at his beer. "Tonight?"  
  
Sam nodded, smiling a bit. "Tonight," he said, kissing Dean on the cheek.  
  
\---  
  
This was always the best part for Dean. Watching Sam do his work, swim in his element, make squirming, screaming masterpieces out of a person and a knife. He loved seeing Sam's eyes so focused and dark, his hands covered in blood and bits of guts. He loved watching Sam play with the more pliable organs, his hands working, graceful in every minute movement, covered in scarlet. He knew this was a more personal time for Sam, and watching him be in that mood, that mindset, doing what he did best, was something amazing for Dean.  
  
When they first started doing this, Dean hated being in the room while Sam did it. He didn't like watching someone get cut up and ripped apart so easily, didn't like hearing the screams and howls of pain and agony. Sometimes the victim pleaded - "Please, no, don't do this, it hurts, please, just kill me, please!" - and that was the worst for Dean. Even now, it made him flinch, but Sam always calmed Dean's nerves with his smooth, quiet voice.  
  
"Don't worry, Dean, it's okay."  
  
He loved Sam so much, he really did. He just wanted the kid to be happy, and if that meant letting him hurt random innocents, then so be it. And he liked seeing him happy, he liked how once Sam was done, he would smile so much more, and he was so much happier. He'd let Dean hold him closer and longer, and instead of going hard and fast, they'd slow down for a moment, just feel each other and their bodies and they'd love each other in a different way for just one night.  
  
This was the best part for Sam. Cutting up a jackass that pissed him off, hurting someone who deserved it. He loved this. He loved being able to carve up some sonuvabitch, make them feel the unimaginable pain of having a knife plunge into their insides while they were awake and feeling everything. It was the only time he had to really clear his head, to breathe, to let the screaming voices in his head leave him for just a few pretty hours.  
  
He liked screams. He liked blood. He sometimes wished it didn't stain skin so easily, but when he got a little sprayed on Dean and it set in, he always looked so beautiful like that. He liked getting blood on Dean's clothes, reddish brown smears in the vague shape of fingers clawing down his back. He liked doing what he did.  
  
What he didn't like was killing. He didn't want to watch the lights leave people's eyes, he didn't want to see them fade away. It was too much. He knew they died, but it would be different actually doing it, actually watching it happen. That's why he made it Dean's job to _kill_ them.  
  
He loved Dean, he really did. Sometimes he didn't show it as obviously or as much as Dean did, but he really did love him. He was glad Dean let him do this, he was glad that he didn't try to stop him and didn't hate him, just seemed to love him more and more with each passing day. He was happy with Dean, because he got what he needed in so many different ways.  
  
When Sam pulled away from the large man, hours later, his eyes were shining and he was smiling behind the surgical mask. He looked up at Dean.  
  
Dean walked over to him, wrapped his arms around Sam. He pulled Sam's mask down, pressed their lips together, gentle and easy. Sam pressed a bloody, gloved hand to his back, probably leaving another stain, but he didn't mind, was too focused on how Sam's lips felt against his.  
  
He took out his gun, pressed it to the guy's forehead. The man let out a small whimper, but Dean cut it off, pulling the trigger.  
  
Dean pulled Sam's gloves off, throwing them on the ground. Sam's arms coiled around Dean's neck, Dean's hands cupping him by the ass, lifting him off his feet, and he wrapped his legs around his brother's waist, bringing them closer together. Dean carried him to the guest room, branched off the basement. He set Sam down, hovering over him and kissing his neck.  
  
"You shouldn't get so turned on by that," Sam mumbled, his voice husky and breathy already.  
  
"Neither should you," Dean shot back, pulling Sam's shirt up and off his thin, lanky frame. He kissed down his chest, pausing occasionally to bite into the pale, pretty skin there, leaving marks behind to darken later.  
  
Sam's hand was in his hair before he even got the kid's pants off.  
  
"You're so eager, baby boy."  
  
"Dean, stop teasing."  
  
Sam obviously had more power over Dean than anyone else in the world. Dean would follow him into Hell, would fight the devil himself for the kid. Sam knew that, abused that power often, but never without reason. And Dean worshipped every inch of his body and soul - including the good amount of inches he had packing in the groin area.  
  
He just preferred being on bottom.  
  
Dean didn't mind.  
  
Sam gave a shameless moan as Dean's mouth eneveloped him, hot and wet and perfect. Dean was so good at this, it wasn't fair. He knew every soft spot on Sam's body, knew how to touch him and where and when to lick and suck and his experience was so much greater than Sam's - he'd given him permission to sleep with a few girls, just for their cover's sake - it didn't take too long for Sam to be satisfied.  
  
Dean always swallowed, no matter what.  
  
Sam always returned the favor.  
  
\---  
  
Sam and Dean were at a bar for some drinks, sitting in a dark corner to avoid being recognized, playing footsie under the table. Sam was just having a beer this time, wanting to stay away from the hard stuff for the night, the same kind as Dean always drank. They were in Massachusetts now, and John was back in their motel.  
  
On the TVs hanging around the bar, the news turned to a report about the latest strike of the Winchester Trio. The bartender turned up the volume, and Sam and Dean held hands, smiling a bit as they watched.  
  
"Bastards," one patron cursed loudly.  
  
"They are twisted little souls, aren't they," a middle-aged woman commented dryly, sipping on her third red wine of the night.  
  
"I just hope someone shoots them someday. And soon," the bartender huffed, cleaning a glass.  
  
Sam's eyebrows furrowed, and he turned to Dean. "Dean."  
  
"Yeah, Sammy?"  
  
"If worst comes to worst," he bit his lip, looking away for a moment. Dean frowned, running his fingers through Sam's long, soft hair.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Would you ever kill me? If you had to."  
  
Dean sighed, and pulled Sam into a tight hug. "No, no, of course not, baby boy. I love you so much."  
  
Dean couldn't see Sam's little grin.  
  
"I love you, too, Dean."  
  
Twisted little souls. Yeah, he supposed. It worked.


End file.
